


Peace for Our Time

by Diogenes



Category: Storm Hawks
Genre: AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:19:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diogenes/pseuds/Diogenes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after winning the war for the Atmos, Master Cyclonis catches up on some paperwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peace for Our Time

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to my beta Ffordesoon.

I am the Master Cyclonis, dread queen of all Atmos. My word is law across the sky; my navies and my Talons reach as far as the known world is broad. What enemies I once had are dead or subjugated, and when I leave my palace now, I walk amongst adoring crowds. Cyclonia is wealthy, Cyclonia is secure, Cyclonia is without rival. The darkness of earlier days is gone, banished by the spoils of conquest and later, the fruits of wartime industry regeared for peace. Factories that once produced dreadnoughts and skimmers now build cargo ships and refrigerators, power cells and tractors. My people toil in mines and trenches no longer: Old Cyclonia glitters as the capital of the world's last and only nation. If tyranny this be, then it is tyranny with a chicken in every pot and a flitter in every port.

So _why_ , by the bones of my honored grandmother, am I still troubled by _paperwork_?

It is three in the morning, or something not far shy. I could check my clock, but doing so would only frustrate me more. At least the stack of signed decrees is taller than the stack that still awaits my seal, though this is not so great a comfort. Both are several inches tall.

I have voiced my frustrations to the Lady Chancellor several times. She assures me, with a studied professionalism that I find deeply obnoxious, that the traditions and laws of Cyclonia demand that the Master review all such documents, and that my staff handles many more that do not require my direct approval. I remind her of the existence of the autopen, a device which the Lady Chancellor devised herself, and she demurs. She points out that the laws are unclear regarding the autopen; can it be said to be signed by the Master's own hand if the Master's own hand is nowhere involved? And she says that I should count myself lucky; that the autopen does regular duty on all matters not relating to the Imperial Budget or the Ministry of War. My protestations that the Ministry of War ought to produce fewer pieces of paper now that the war has ended are met with little more than sardonic silence.

Nobody speaks to me the way she does. It is, I suppose, the price I must pay for having found her and brought her to my side. She would have made a dangerous enemy, but as a vexation, she is no less effective. Still, I know that she handles many things on my behalf, and I am in theory grateful for this. But though she is now a loyal—indeed, crucial and powerful—ally of Cyclonia, the Lady Chancellor still enjoys frustrating me entirely too much.

"Lark? Are you coming to bed?" Ah, yes. She is also an incessant nag. 

"Shortly," I snap, bringing the stamp down on the page before me with more force than strictly necessary. It smudges, and I growl. Nevertheless, I scrawl my signature across the bottom and shift it over to the next pile. "I have all this work to do, you see."

I hear a rustling from the bedroom. "It’s fine," the Lady Chancellor calls. "There’s nothing there that won’t wait ‘til tomorrow, I approved it all myself." I glance at the next sheet, and read the first few lines.

"Approving funds for emergency water reclamation on Terra Saharr?" I smirk. "Seems urgent to me."

"Keep reading," the Lady Chancellor calls. "You're approving the issuance of bonds to finance the project. They’re already working on it."

She's right. Drat. I hate it when other people are right.

"Nothing here is critical?" 

"It's all critical," she replies amidst more rustling of cloth. "Just not _time_ critical."

I roll my eyes. "And you've allowed me to sit out here for—" I finally check the clock—"two hours on tasks that aren't time critical? When I could be sleeping?" 

"You have to do it sometime," she replies, her voice strangely muffled. "You spent all day playing with crystals. I thought a little time doing your job would be good for you."

"You know I could have you executed," I snap, closing the inkpad before me and placing both it and the stamp bearing my seal in the desk drawer. "I don't put up with this kind of behavior from Ravess, you know."

"Ravess doesn't do this," the Lady Chancellor says into my ear. I startle, dropping my pen. It falls to the marble floor with a shockingly loud clatter, as the Lady Chancellor twines her fingers through my hair. I can feel her breath on my neck and cheek, and I allow my eyes to drift shut as I exhale softly. "Come to bed, Lark."

"All right," I say, a chuckle in my voice. I reach up to capture one of her hands, and rise to my feet. As I do, I turn to see her, and I smile. "Hello, Piper."

She's dressed for bed, in baggy pants and an aged, ratty t-shirt that is older than our relationship, and with more frayed places. I have lost count of the times that I've reminded her that she has the entire Imperial Household budget with which to clothe herself, and that she need not wear things which are more hole than fabric, but she replies that she isn't some noble who needs a new dress every week. And truly, the worn-out clothes are so _her_ that it would be odd to see her in silks. 

The Lady Chancellor tugs at my hand. "Come on. Stop standing there checking me out. You need to sleep."

"I never used to sleep," I grouse. "I'm not sure it's necessary."

"You also used to exterminate people," Piper says, like it's a joke. There's a slightly grim cast to her mouth though, and I raise an eyebrow.

"War is hell; I make no apologies for what I've done."

"I don't need apologies. Just that you continue forming new habits." I can feel the ice forming between us. I bite my tongue: the first thing a warlord learns is that there are some battles not worth fighting. Instead of an accusation, I counter with reason.

"Rule of law. Judicial review. An advisory council drawn from all the terras. Legal equality for all citizens of the empire. Reforms _you_ ordered." I tick them off on my fingers, her hand abandoned. "My grandmother would hardly recognize her Cyclonia."

"Your Cyclonia, now."

"Be that as it may."

Piper frowns and turns away, padding silently across the black marble floor. Her shoulders are tight, hands, I know her well enough to guess, clasped in front of her.

"Your people are better off," she snaps. "That ought to be enough for you."

"It is," I say, feeling like I'm grasping at straws. This conversation has gotten entirely away from me; I have no idea where it's going. Piper is the only one who does this to me.

"Is it?"

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" I'm glowering now, my eyes narrowed. Suddenly, I feel naked without my cape of state; I'm used to being able to key up the hood to hide my expression. It is a wonderful tool for a head of state, to keep the face hidden. It hides emotion.

"I worry about you," she says, more softly than I expected. "I worry about your impulses—your instincts. You like control too much." 

Ah. It's this fight. We have this fight regularly, though it always has a different theme. The Lady Chancellor of the Empire of Cyclonia is a democrat at heart, and her conscience bothers her. Usually, it does so around Victory Day, but it is prone to do so from time to time without warning. 

"The citizenry is freer now than it ever has been under Cyclonian rule," I say, careful not to phrase it as a challenge. "I won't deny—yes, I rule by decree. You know that: you write many of them." I step forward, grateful that I'm still wearing shoes, and that my feet click on the stone. I don't want to surprise her. "It's better than it was for the subject terras. This victory hasn't marked the end of distinct cultures; there have been no relocations or confiscations. I'm trying, Piper."

"I know you are," she says, guilt dripping from her voice. "I am too. I guess it's no secret that I'm trying to liberalize your regime." She's let me get quite close. In her current state of mind, I know that this is a good sign. I reach out and touch her arm, and she doesn't pull away.

"You admitted that long ago," I say, smiling weakly. "As you say, Cyclonia is better for it." I chuckle, then. I can't help it. "Who would have thought, during the war? The Eleventh Master as a reformer? You've done much to make me, of all people, into one."

"I still worry," she maintains, looking away from me. "If you changed your mind. You said, earlier—you could have me executed, if you wanted to."

I shudder. It's a visceral thing. "I wouldn't."

"I know. But the point is—"

"Don't say things like that." I pull her close to me, resting my chin on her shoulder as I wrap my arms around her waist from behind. "It's horrid."

"You often like horrid," she says, but there's something of hesitant laughter in her voice.

"I like macabre," I correct gently. "I like the dark. I don't like horrible things."

"My point is," Piper redirects, "that you don't have to listen to my counsel, or anyone's. If, one day, you decided you didn't like the inhabitants of Terra Wallop, then poof—no more Wallops."

"It would hardly be 'poof.'" I shrug. "It would take months, money, Cyclonian lives. It's not as though the conquered won't fight back; we both know that." 

"That's not my point."

"It's not mine, either." I hold her, still. "What do I have to do to convince you that I'm not that woman, anymore? That Cyclonia isn't that empire?"

"I don't know," she replies, leaning against me. "I really don't. I trust you. But I worry."

By now, I'm used to this enough that I don't feel hurt. "Every day that you're my chancellor," I reply calmly, "is a day I won't do what you're frightened of. And Ravess is hardly a butcher either, at least as Talon Generals go. I've surrounded myself with liberals, as the conservative nobles are always apt to remind me. The people of the Atmos are safe as long as you are who you are, and as long as I am me."

"As long as you're you?" Piper is still tense under my hands. "You did— _you_ did awful things, during the war."

"Yes," I say, keeping my voice low and even. "But I love you. I won't risk your love for me."

She laughs. It's a bitter sound, and I don't like hearing it come from her. She's not supposed to be the bitter one. "It's comforting to know that the lives of millions potentially hang on the strength of our relationship," Piper mutters.

"An interesting twist on the Sword of Damocles, no?"

"Stop talking, Lark," Piper says, sighing. "You aren't helping your case anymore."

I nod. Perversity has always been my greatest flaw. I enjoy too much working at cross-purposes to others, but Piper knows this too, and is often forgiving.

"Shall we go to bed, Lady Chancellor?" 

"Don't call me that. Not right now, at least."

"All right," I say, tugging at her waist gently. "Piper, then. Come to bed with me?"

She doesn't say anything, but she takes one of my hands in hers, and together we walk across the black marble floor to our bedroom, armistice intact.


End file.
